The Many Misadventures of the Musketeers
by bearsrawesome
Summary: A series of one-shots filled with H/C, whump, brotherly fluffiness and humour starring our favourite foursome.
1. Fever

**Hiya everyone, welcome to my new series. I've been planning this for ages so I have a few chapters lined up and a couple of prompts on my wall but I'd really like you guys to end me ideas for things you want to read. know this kind of series has been done before and people have probably had similar ideas but I shall endeavour to make these shots as orignal and different as possible so you never read the same thing twice x Posting will be every few days to a week or so given I've just started my A-levels but I will try to keep it pretty regular x Thanks and enjoy! Special love and hugs to anyone who reviews, you guys always make my day. Oh and PS Be aware I don't have so many qualms with killing characters like other authors...I find it keeps you guys (hopefully)on the edge of your seats x**

**Fever**

Porthos woke to darkness. The air was cold and musty, white puffs of breath just visible in the chink of moonlight that filtered through a tiny barred window, about the size of two bricks, far above Porthos's head. He was slumped against a brick wall, head rolling limply on his chest as he began his return from unconsciousness, bleary eyed and head pounding. He hissed at the stinging across his temple and the sticky blood that had dried down the side of his face and irritated his skin. The Musketeer tried to bring his hands up to prod at his swollen face but they refused to part, bound together with thick rope that dug deeply into his skin. Growling in frustration, Porthos tried to pull himself free, foggy mind trying to set itself straight as he unsuccessfully fought for freedom.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom as he thought, remembering their mission; the four of them, having been sent to investigate a number of highway robberies said to be perpetrated by offenders a few leagues outside Paris. Athos had suggested they split up, cover as much ground as quickly as possible, going to the latest site with Aramis whilst Porthos and d'Artagnan-

D'Artagnan!

They had been together when they had quite literally stumbled upon the basement where the owners of the local inn had been concealing their treasures and that was when they had been set upon. But what happened after that?

Porthos searched his short-term memory desperately - his dulled senses vaguely supplying Aramis' voice about concussions and temporary amnesia—before registering the dark shape across the room. Frowning, Porthos squinted in the poor lighting and tried to identify the figure, seeing a slight rise and fall—almost invisible to none but a trained eye—that indicated breathing. Porthos' body jolted as he recognised his friend's lithe shadow and slowly shuffled toward him, ignoring the dizziness and nausea that threatened him.

"D'Artagnan?" he called out softly, eyes looking toward the stone steps that led up to the oak door in the corner of the room "Wake up."

He reached over with both his hands, balancing a little precariously as he touched the young man's shoulder and rolled him to face him. Porthos almost reeled back as he touched the Gascon's skin and felt the heat radiating off him as though touching an open flame. D'Artagnan's face was coated with sweat so that it glistened in the pale moonlight, highlighting the hollowness of his cheekbones and the greyness of his skin leading to the red in his cheeks that showed his high fever. Dark hair hung limply over his sunken eyes that rolled behind his eyelids and he mumbled incoherently at being disturbed but did not wake.

Porthos almost choked on air, the breath caught in his throat at his panic. He had seen too many great soldiers succumb to their own body in fevers much like this one and he frantically tried to remember everything Aramis had ever taught him about medicine. First things first, work out what was wrong with the kid. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, Porthos leaned forward and did as much as he good to examine the young Musketeers lying prone before him but found no outward sign of injury other than the effects of the raging fever.

D'Artagnan's breathing was short and raspy and a harsh cough made him curl into himself and Porthos rubbed the young man's back soothingly as the fit continued.

"Quiet lad, just breathe. You're going to be alright." he lulled quietly, heart feeling tight in his chest as he felt the dampness under his hand of the sweat-soaked shirt.

"N'" d'Artagnan groaned weakly as his coughing fit ended "F'th'r…he's inn'c'nt…Ath's…fri'nd…no…n't tra't'r…pl'ase f'th'r."

The nightmare that had gripped d'Artagnan's mind was obviously fuelled by the sickness and Porthos pitied the boy as he squirmed and frowned in his dream. There was a creaking sound and Porthos' head snapped up toward the staircase in the corner of the room, his body instantly moving forward to cover the young Gascon protectively but the ominous sound of feet on floorboards stopped just outside the door at the top before a muffled voice yelled.

"What are you doing?" a feminine voice called, panicked, sounding old "What if they've woken up?"

"They tracked us down, Marie. They already know who we are!" a deep baritone argued back, sounding only marginally calmer and Porthos finally recognised the voices as those of the innkeeper and his wife.

"So what do we do now?! The other Musketeers will have realised they're missing and be searching for them!"

D'Artagnan groaned softly and Porthos glanced away from the door long enough to put his hand on the young man's shin; his touch seemingly calming the boy as he stilled with a shaky exhalation.

The husband's voice was quiet and Porthos had to strain to hear him "We do what we must to survive. Whatever it takes to keep our family safe."

"George…are you seriously suggesting we _kill _two Musketeers?! We're not murderers!"

"If we don't we'll be sentenced to the gallows!" George screamed in anguish, sounding desperate and almost on the verge of tears "You, me, the boys! The King will spare no lowly innkeepers mercy! He will not listen to our pleas that we turned to robbery to keep bread on our table!"

Marie sounded conflicted and Porthos found himself praying to the almighty powers above that she could convince her husband to spare himself and d'Artagnan "And how do you plan of getting rid of them? The other Musketeers are practically on our doorstep!"

"Nicolas dosed the boy with enough horse tranquiliser to take out men three times his size. He'll probably never wake up anyway. It's too late to save him anyway. The bigger one…we'll make it quick…honourable."

"Executing them is not a worthy death!"

"Would you rather we did this or you watched our sons swing from rope!"

Silence. Abrupt and tense. It was as if the axe had just dropped and Porthos' grip tightened protectively on d'Artagnan as he watched the door, heart thudding in his chest. The silence held the answer. It seemed Marie had given into her husband, and Porthos could not find it in his heart to blame her, there was nothing he wouldn't do for his family, he had already killed for his brothers and would surely do so again without hesitation. They didn't have much time, if Porthos could somehow get free he might be able to carry d'Art to the top of the staircase or maybe Aramis and Athos were close enough that he could leave some kind of message or-

"P'thos….?"

Porthos' eyes snapped to meet glazed, fever-blown brown orbs, dark and shiny even in the near blackness.

"It's me, lad. How ya feeling?" Porthos whispered warmly, keeping his voice calm and soft as d'Artagnan's weak, wet hands gripped at his for reassurance, revelling in the slight relief of seeing the boy concious.

"'M okay." d'Artagnan's voice was croaky and slow, exhaustion in the lowness of his tone "You?"

Porthos smiled, brushing back a lock of hair "I'm fine, lad, don't you worry. We're gonna be okay."

"Wh'r's Ath's 'nd 'Mis?"

"They're comin', d'Art." Porthos patted him affectionately on the shoulder, ears straining to hear anymore sound from behind the locked wooden door "They'll be here soon, okay? You just gotta hold on. Can you stay awake for me?"

"Mmhm." the boy hummed in response, eyelids half-closed as he tried to stay awake "Wha' h'ppened?"

Porthos rubbed his burning shoulder, gritting his teeth with worry "We ran into a little trouble, whelp. But don't worry, you know Athos, he'll sort everything out. Just take the time to enjoy the peace and quiet before Aramis gets here and destroys it."

The younger man let out a fragile huff of laughter "I th'nk 'Shut up, Ar'mis' is Athos' favour'te s'ntence."

"You would think so given how much he says it." Porthos agreed softly, eyes now focussed on the door where he could hear feet passing at a shadow flitted under the gap in the door.

"I's cold."

Porthos shifted his weight and managed to push d'Artagnan tighter against him, head resting in his lap "It is, isn't it."

Hushed voices, one of them was tearful , disjointed with high sobs, the other was interrupted by the click of a weapon being reloaded, familiar and frightening.

"P'thos?"

"Yeah. d'Art?"

"I'm scared."

Porthos sighed, thumb absently rubbing at the back of d'Artagnan's sweaty hand "Me too, lad…but you know me and the others, we're always gonna look out for you, yeah?"

"Yeah." the word was a soft, sleepy breath from d'Artagnana and suddenly d'Artagnan's eyes had slid shut and his laboured breathing had calmed slightly in his unconsciousness.

Porthos felt both comforted and alone when the lock on the door rattled, and the chink of light grew across the wall as a shadow, complete with ebony weapon, spread across the wall. A man stepped through, timid but determined as he straightened his figure and came down the stairs, d'Artagnan's stolen musket in his hands.

To Porthos, the man seemed entirely ordinary, no different from the many men he had come across in his time as a Musketeer. There was nothing remarkable about his face, just a man just passed his prime with grey speckled hair and worn and weather-beaten skin, wrinkles telling of a hard but pleasant life that many ordinary men lived. Porthos stood slowly to face him, carefully stepping in front of d'Artagnan and fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him,

"I'm sorry," Porthos recognised the deep baritone of George's voice, now thicker with emotion as he lifted his weapon and pointed it between the Musketeer's eyes "But I have to do this…for my family."

"You kill us and you'll have doomed them. My brothers won't stop until they bring you to justice." Porthos tried to reason, voice cool and calm despite the pounding against his ribs.

George's face crumpled "Then I'm doomed either way."

Porthos breath froze in his chest as he let out a small breath, time seeming to slow to a crawl as the man's finger squeezed the trigger. Suddenly there was the loud explosion of a musket and Porthos felt blood spray across his face, having to close his eyes and twist away from the hot liquid. The sensation of crimson life-blood across his face was a surprise and Porthos took a sharp intake of breath as a high-pitched scream filled the air.

"George!"

The metallic smell of freshly spilt blood did nothing to dissuade the weepy Marie as she pushed the figure at the top of the stairs, gun still trained on the empty spot, into the wall and rushed past him to collapse beside the corpse of her dead husband, shaking him uselessly as she begged for him to awaken. There was a clatter of shoes as Aramis rushed down the stairs, Athos on his heels and gripped Porthos.

"Are you alright?"

"D'Artagnan…" Porthos gasped, hands trembling slightly in his ties, head turning toward him as Aramis followed his gaze and dropped down to his knees, hands roaming the boy's body.

Athos' face was stoic and stiff, but the cloud of terror and worry was hidden deep in his dark eyes as his fingers began to work at the knots around Porthos' wrists. Marie continued to wail, a lonely and hideous sound that made Porthos' blood cold and heaviness to settle deep in his heart. The elder Musketeer's eyes asked a silent question and Porthos allowed himself to lean slightly into Athos' body to convey his distress and seek the calm guidance that Athos naturally emanated.

"I need to take him upstairs and treat him." Aramis announced harshly, the words thrown over his shoulder as he scooped d'Artagnan's limp body into his arms, the boy's nose buried in his neck and he rushed past and up the staircase.

Porthos watched them go with a slight sigh of relief, glad that d'Artagnan was now in Aramis' capable hands and felt his hands finally drop free.

"I'm sorry we took so long to get here." Athos muttered quietly, hand settling on Porthos' shoulder and the larger man started at the darkness in his tone.

"It doesn't matter. You're here now."

Athos managed a strained smile in reply but they were interrupted by the click of the gun and Porthos lifted his head to see Marie stood behind them, d'Artagnan's musket pointed towards Athos' chest. Her cheeks were tear-stained, eyes red and bloodshot and they lacked the spark of life, the hollowness of her cheeks testament to the pain in her heart.

Athos reacted first, calm and controlled "Put the weapon down, Madame."

"No! You killed him! You killed my husband!"

"I assure you, we had no choice. It was never our intention-"

"Liar!" Marie screeched, gun jerking violently in her untrained hands.

"Don't you think there's been enough bloodshed, Marie?" Porthos pleaded quietly, all too aware how deadly a shot from that distance was as he met Marie's gaze.

"George is dead! Because of you!"

Athos tried again "Please, Madame, it's over. No one else has to die."

Marie faltered, the musket dropping slightly toward the floor. Athos moved forward to take it from her but she raised it again and he stepped back accordingly.

"I-I…" Marie looked stricken as her gaze flickered between them and George "I-I can't! I will not swing from the rope. I can't carry on without him."

She brought the musket up beneath her chin, eyes squeezed tightly shut and tears trickling down her pale cheeks, just as Porthos cried "No!".

When blood sprayed across the ceiling and Marie crumpled in a boneless heap, Porthos and Athos were left staring, eyes haunted and breathing short at the empty space when she had been stood. The pounding of his heartbeat was deafeningly loud in the silence as the horror caught up with Porthos and he found himself frozen in place, blood like ice in his veins and limbs made of stone. Athos moved first, managed to pull himself back from the precipice of darkness and he found the shaky strength to wrap his arm around Porthos' large frame and lead him away, turning him from the violence and death.

Porthos didn't protest, he didn't even blink and the next thing he knew he was stood in a quaint little kitchen with a stove fire roaring in the corner, emitting tendrils of relaxing warmth that managed to melt a little of the icy grip around his heart, a grounding grip on his shoulder and a brother pressed at his side.

Suddenly Aramis was there—having heard the gunshot and come to the conclusion one of his brothers had managed to hurt themselves (again, as if he didn't have enough to worry about with d'Artagnan)-fussing over them like he usually did, with his motherly clucking and sweet, dulcet tones as he kept constant physical contact and wittered on about nothing. Soon enough Porthos felt the walls around his crumbling; he leaned into Athos' hands, sniggered at Aramis' sexual innuendos and lighthearted teasing, kept his eyes trained on the unconscious Musketeer laid on the cot just in his eye-line, who was so miraculously alive and recovering thanks to Aramis' quick-thinking and trained hands.

And despite all the fear and the horror and the heartbreak; the nightmares he knew he would be plagued with for weeks, the gruff words and harsh days to come where his brothers would have to fight tooth and nail for a smile; he knew he was going to be okay. Because he had his brothers and, for better or for worse, he was never alone.


	2. Of A Time Before

**Thank you so much for all your amazing feedback! You guys really made my day(s)! I can't tell you how much reading all your reviews made me smile! Anyway, I'm back and this time with a little bit of an Athos angsty shot which hopefully shows the relationship between all our boys x Please review and tell me what you think, I really appreciate it! Oh and send me prompts if you want! I'll try to get through them in a few chapters x**

**Of A Time Before**

Athos leant against the railing that lined the landing outside the row of dormitories. Below him, his eyes were fixed on the young man in the court yard; a smile fixed on his face as he laughed jovially and spoke enthusiastically with his comrades. He was so distracted by his thoughts, he didn't notice another approach until their shoulders touched and Athos almost jumped at the contact.

"Shouldn't you be down there already?"

"Good morning to you too, Aramis." Athos replied dryly, watching as the Spaniard leant against the rail and watched the Musketeers beneath them.

"What is troubling you, my friend?" Aramis spoke slowly, gently so that the words wouldn't drift beyond their control "You've been doing this a lot as of late. Has d'Artagnan done something that bothers you?"

"No." Athos doesn't hesitate before answering almost harshly "Quite the opposite. I haven't felt...like this...in years."

Aramis raised an eyebrow "And what would 'this' feeling be?"

"Perhaps, it's merely...foolishness or grief or nostalgia," Athos looked stricken as he struggled with his words "Perhaps recent events with Anne have reminded me of a time before the Musketeers..."

He paused for a long time and Aramis waited understandingly, soothing presence never retreating or pressing.

"Sometimes I cannot believe how fortunate I am to have met you and Porthos and-though I know you would disagree- I feel...undeserving after all the sins I have committed."

"But...?" Aramis prompted with a soft nudge to the older man's rib cage and a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Athos sighed "D'Artagnan...has changed my view of the world. I am no longer so bitter and cynical; I no longer require-much-drink to fulfil the emptiness in my chest."

"Then we all owe him a great debt." Aramis smiled and gazed down at the boy with a fond expression "Who would have thought the young, impulsive Gascon farm boy would worm his way into our hearts so quickly."

"He reminds me of him."

Aramis head turned quizzically to Athos, whose eyes remained steadily trained on the oblivious subject of their conversation.

"Of Thomas I mean." Athos blinked slowly before continuing "Seeing him like this...so lively and happy; it's like I'm looking at Thomas all over again, when he was younger, more innocent. Even when we train, it's almost like the images in my head are overlaid. I've almost called him Thomas more times than I can count...they're just so similar and yet so different."

Aramis was speechless; no words to supply as an answer and just obligingly listened as Athos seemed to just think aloud.

"I can't help but think I'm insulting both of them in some way; merging their personalities together to fit my own selfish needs." Aramis opened his mouth to intervene but Athos stopped him "I try to remember that d'Artagnan is his own person...that I have no right to label him as my little brother especially after how Thomas ended up in my care. But, I don't think I could bear it. To lose him-any of you-again. You are the only family I have now."

"And you are ours." Athos turned to Aramis with a tearful expression as the Spaniard's hand rested on his shoulder and he stared into his soulful eyes "You are loved here, Athos. D'Artagnan adores you as though you were his older brother and he is no Thomas, he will not betray you. You are not alone anymore."

Athos nodded slowly but Aramis suspected the message hadn't truly registered in the older man's mind.

"I think d'Artagnan would be honoured that you consider him so close. I often get the impression he feels a little unsure of himself given how long we've all know each other."

"He shouldn't." Athos answered without hesitation "I couldn't imagine a life here without him, as I couldn't after I met you and Porthos. You are my reason to get up in the morning otherwise I surely would have drowned myself in drink long ago."

Aramis smiled to himself, the words creating genuine pleasure and pride "As I am certain we all feel the same about you; though perhaps without the drinking. Speaking of which, may I ask what has brought about this sudden burst on honesty? It is not every day you stand here watching d'Artagnan and bearing your soul to me."

"And Porthos."

"And Por-wait...what?" Aramis spluttered in confusion just as Porthos moved almost sheepishly from the shadows.

"You caught me, 'Thos. And here I was thinking I'd managed to get one up on you."

Athos raised his head to smile crookedly at the large Musketeer "I think it would be unfair to share my feelings with Aramis and not you."

"Then why was I skulking around for ages?" Porthos shook his head regretfully, the question lingering between the three though an answer wasn't expected "I was worried you were gonna spot me and shut up."

Aramis smirked at the brutal upfront ness of Porthos before pushing "Don't think you can use Porthos' entrance to escape the question, Athos."

Athos sobered and a cold silence settled around them like a blanket.

"Exactly six years ago was the day my life fell apart."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a quick glance as the realisation hit the both of them simultaneously.

"Six years ago, I lost the two most important people in my life. My wife and my little brother."

"Athos..."

"You need not say anything, Porthos." Athos looked up with a faint smile on his lips "I know what you wish to say and I know how you feel but I feel as though it is time I shared my feelings with you."

The peal of the cathedral bells suddenly began and the sound reverberated through the air and made it hum with the beautiful cacophony of Paris. The three Musketeers stood silently on the landing, allowing the sounds to entrap them in their own personal bubble; as though they were the only people in the whole of France.

"I woke last night in cold sweat; having had a dream I've be tortured with a million times...but this time it was different." Athos' voice was distant and inflective as he stated out in the blue morning sky "It wasn't Thomas lying in a pool of his own blood with my wife standing over him...it was d'Artagnan."

Athos stopped himself, as though saying it aloud somehow made it reality and he swallowed past the painful lump in his throat.

"It felt so real and after everything with Milady, I can't help but think: what if I made the wrong decision?" He admitted in a fragile whisper as Aramis' and Porthos' hands touched each shoulder simultaneously "What if she returns and recreates what she has already taken from me?"

Aramis leaned in close so that his words beat hotly against Athos' ears "It is the mercy you showed that makes you who you are, makes you a better man, the man d'Artagnan looks up to. Had it been any other or even us you would have said exactly the same thing."

"And we ain't gonna let her get anywhere near d'Artagnan. You can trust us, Athos. We protect our own." Porthos added seriously, hoping that his words would sink into his friend's thick skull.

"I trust you three above all, Porthos. Thank you. I owe you everything."

"You owe us nothing," Aramis countered with a slight smile and a quick squeeze of his fingers "For we owe you just as much."

"If not more." Porthos agreed heartily, eyes deep pools to his soul "Without you neither of us would be standing here today and that goes for d'Artagnan too; something tells me the whelp was never gonna just settle down and be a farmer."

"God has given all of us destinies and it seems ours are to be intertwined. D'Artagnan was always going to be something more, someone important; as he is to us."

"I cannot say I have much faith in God anymore, Aramis." Athos spoke carefully, eyes raised to meet the Spaniard's "But it seems fate has ruled that we four will stand together."

Porthos raised an eyebrow and stuck out his hand, palm down "All for one?"

Athos and Aramis grinned and added their hands on top as the three finished.

"And one for all."

"Hey!"

A voice below gained their attention and they looked down to see d'Artagnan staring up at them in mild confusion, hands resting on his belt and the hilt on his sword.

"Is this some kind of secret meeting I'm not meant to know about? 'Cause if so, why are you having it on the balcony where I can very clearly see you? Why am I not allowed to know about it? And-most importantly-what about breakfast? Am I the only one who hasn't forgotten we still have duties later and Treville will string us up if we're late to another parade."

"Ah, the impetuousness of youth." Aramis mused to the others as they broke apart.

Porthos nodded "But he's right about that. Breakfast sounds good but Treville will send us on another of those boring protection assignments if we take too long."

"We're coming." Was Athos' quick and short reply over the fencing, his usual stoic mask already settled in place.

As the three descended the stairs, the young Gascon met them impatiently at the bottom, nodding his head to their usual table where some bread, cheese and wine was already laid out.

Porthos clapped him on the back with an excited grin as he walked purposefully over "Now you're talking, lad. I'm starving."

"When are you not?"

Porthos sent him a glare as he dropped into his seat "Oi, cheeky; this better not be another dig at my weight 'cause you're a twig."

"Do remember that last time Porthos proved his point by carrying you through the market like an unruly toddler." Athos warned d'Artagnan drily, taking the seat next to the boy as they all sat down and began to eat.

"So," d'Artagnan pressed after swallowing "Why were you all standing up there? I haven't done something wrong have I?"

"You think we're avoiding you and having secret meetings? Isn't that distrustful." Aramis said smoothly, chomping down on another piece of food, but that only made the Gascon seem more nervous.

"It wasn't a secret meeting." Athos sent a dark glance Aramis' way as he assured his protégé "And we aren't avoiding you."

Porthos spoke through a mouthful of food "We were betting."

All of them turned to him with raised eyebrows, Aramis looking particularly amused.

"On what?" d'Artagnan inquired with narrowed eyes.

"How long you'd last in today's parade." Porthos explained in an easy lie as the last of the cheese disappeared down his throat "You were shaky last time and today is hotter and longer. I reckoned maybe after an hour, 'Mis said just before it ends. Athos is being a bit cocky if you ask me; says you'll last the whole thing."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he turned to Athos in almost surprise as Aramis struggled to hold back a snort of laughter "Really?"

Athos ducked his head and Aramis could see he was fighting off a deep blush.

"Of course," Aramis quickly interjected as he stifled outward emotion unlike Porthos who was shaking with silent laughter "We don't want you to faint...well, maybe Porthos does...but almost every Musketeer has at some point."

"It's a rite of passage." Aramis added with a small smile and picked at his food "You've just been lucky enough to be under the tutelage of the best in the regiment and have so far avoided too many of the pesky things."

D'Artagnan turned to Athos, inquisitive "Is this true, Athos?"

"I am not getting involved." Athos decreed and held his hands up.

"Why am I the only one who wants d'Art to faint?" Porthos glared accusingly at Aramis "Whenever you see anyone even looking a little pale and shaky you start grinning madly and don't take your eyes off them. It's creepy."

"I am not creepy! I'm just trying to keep an eye on my fellow Musketeers as my medic nature is prone to and I try to keep their spirits up by smiling at them."

"Sure, 'Mis. Though I'm pretty sure your medical eye and reassuring smile is what's causing people to faint. It freaks me out when you get that look. It means you're up to something, something that usually ends up in pain and unpleasantness."

"What are you talking about? I'm always pleasant to be around."

Athos interrupted quickly "Let's not get into this game."

"What game?" they replied in unison, innocent eyes wide and tone's light.

"The game where you attempt to prove one another wrong by referencing numerous, usually rather embarrassing, events that have resulted from both of your ridiculous antics.

"Why do you judge us so harshly, Athos?" Aramis answered with a mock wince, hand on his heart "It is as painful as a slap from the lovely Madame Bonacieux."

Porthos hissed in disagreement "Nothing hits as hard as Constance. That woman really knows how to slap people."

"Perhaps you should refrain from giving her reason to hurt you then."

"Nah," Porthos shrugged with sat back with a toothy smile "It's great fun to see Aramis getting knocked around by a girl."

"Who's to say women cannot knock any man they wish around?"

All three turned to see Treville stood a short distance behind them and Aramis let out a startled "Sir!"

The wisened Captain nodded a short greeting before continuing "I have known many women in my time and they are often fiercer than men. Though I would never support a woman's place on the battlefield, I find that they have the heart to beat many men in a fight. They have the admirable ability to decide when it is necessary to fight and when not to fight. I believe Madame Bonacieux would call it 'common sense'."

D'Artagnan sniggered and Athos nodded with a small smile "Of course, sir. Would you perhaps be hinting toward certain, more volatile members of our regiment, by any chance?"

"That would be for you to decide, Athos." Treville allowed a small smirk of his lips "Is it not more telling that you believe I may be referring to certain insubordinates?"

Athos nodded lowly and Treville straightened, face becoming serious once more.

"However, I might be more vocal in my disapproval of you four if I don't see you at the parade at noon with the punctuality expected from all my soldiers."

"Of course, sir." the four replied in perfect unison, faces stoic sans Aramis who offered a charming smile that Treville promptly ignored with an exasperated sigh.

Treville pauses halfway up the stairs and throws over his shoulder "That means you should probably leave now. Then you might at least have some time to take care of whatever trouble springs upon you as you walk through Paris."

The four just grinned at one another knowingly as Treville disappeared from his office and d'Artagnan jumped to his feet.

"Race ya!"

"Let's make this a grown up affair," Porthos said with a sly smile, rising to his feet "Twenty sous that I make it to the palace before you."

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes "No cheating?"

"I'm hurt you'd think I'd do that to you. I'm a gentleman."

"Yeah, right."

Porthos just laughed as Aramis and Athos stood, the latter raising his eyebrows and offering a word of caution "Please refrain from doing anything too destructive please. We are meant to be the King's Musketeers."

"Promise we won't do anything you wouldn't." D'Artagnan grinned mischievously "I will be thinking of you the entire time."

Aramis' eyes lit up "The entire time, huh?"

"Shut up, 'Mis."

"D'Artagnan, look out!" Porthos yelled suddenly and d'Artagnan darted around to look behind him, when he turned back Porthos was already tearing off out of the garrison and toward the nearest rooftop access "See you later!"

D'Artagnan took off after him with an outraged roar "Porthos! You cheat!"

Athos sighed exasperatedly as Aramis chuckled, placing his hat atop his head and nodding to one another as they headed out into the crowded streets of Paris.


	3. The Parade

**Thanks for all the awesome reviews and feedback you guys have been sending my way x If I could give you all hugs I would, but I can't, so please settle for imaginary hugs and invisible cookies! Anyway, hopefully this chapter makes you smile. It's shorter than the others and could be viewed as a follow up to last chapter or an entirely different event altogether. It was originally going to be called 'A Day In the Life of Athos' but I changed my mind x Anyway, enjoy and please tell me what you think!**

**The Parade**

The palace grounds were bustling with activity as the nobility of France with all their gold, silk and finery walked down the gravel pathway in the sweltering heat toward the awning under which the King and Queen sat in their magnificent thrones, the crib of the newly born Prince of France between them. The little pink babe was swaddled in expensive white and cream silk, trimmed with lace and donned in a pale bonnet to protect his bald head from any rays of sun that may bypass the awning above the royal family. Servants walked behind their masters and mistresses, heads bowed, either shading the grandees with intricately patterned parasols or carrying large, precious gifts in heavy oak chests.

The noblemen and women approached the raised platform where the King and Queen were seated and after a short conversation including an enthusiastic congratulations and a lot of 'sucking up' to get the King's favour before the expensive gifts of beautiful metals and jewels were offered. The royal couple took them with pleasant smiles and words of gratitude, Anne's finger clasped in a tiny, soft grip of the imperial infant as Louis shook hands and showed off his radiant wife and healthy son, remarking of course to the similarities in the shape of his nose and the warmth his eyes.

Along the busy line of aristocrats and their households, the majority of the Musketeer garrison was stood out in the stifling summer heat under the blazing sun, dressed in their full uniform and leather pauldrons. Among them were the four best Musketeers in the regiment, stood just beside the dais so they could keep a close watch on the three sovereigns of France. Stiff and stoic, they stood perfectly still and at attention as people moved past, eyes trained ahead as they waited and looked for any signs of danger. The heat caused perspiration to appear on their brows and made their clothes feel sticky and uncomfortable, mouths dry and eyes itchy. Almost two hours into the ceremony, the celebrations were still continuing but the heat had not dissipated, rather intensified in fact, and the four men were growing steadily more frustrated.

Aramis was subtly watching the young man beside him as d'Artagnan swayed slightly, face flushed and a smile tugged at his lips. D'Artagnan, struggling to fight back his nausea and increasing dizziness, caught sight of the slight twitch and shot him a glare.

"What are you laughing about?" he whispered harshly, careful to make sure Treville was distracted by the other guests.

"I'm just waiting for you to faint."

"I will not faint!"

"Every Musketeer faints during a parade." Aramis grinned and gave d'Artagnan his usual fake-innocent glance "It's like a rite of passage. Plus, I'm a medic, I know the signs."

"Signs of what? Fainting?"

"Shhh!" Porthos interrupted before Aramis could reply "Do I have to remind you what the Captain did last time he caught us talking during one of these things?"

Aramis gritted his teeth at the memory and he looked toward the heavens almost pleadingly "I don't think I'll ever forget. It is a brand upon my memory."

"What did he make you do?" D'Artagnan hissed worriedly, facing paling slightly as he glanced nervously back to the steady form of their Captain.

"Quiet, d'Artagnan." Athos admonished, eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight as he stared ahead, face impassive "Unless you wish to find out from first-hand experience."

Aramis turned his head slightly sharply to face d'Artagnan before remembering subtlety "Don't you dare! Treville would probably punish us for being bad influences."

"You were the one who started it!"

"No, I didn't! You talked first!"

"Yeah, but you were laughing!"

"I was not!"

"You were! You admitted to it!"

"Was not!"

"You so were, you lia-"

"Children!" Athos' rough reprimand was enough to silence them as they glanced back toward the eldest Musketeer as Porthos has his chin to his chest and was pathetically trying to disguise his childish giggling as a violent coughing trick "I don't care who started it but you're going to stop it before you end up wrestling on the floor. How could you have possibly been made Musketeers?"

"Sorry, Athos." Both men bowed their heads with a slight blush, looking all the more like scolded youths as they shuffled their feet awkwardly.

Porthos cleared his throat, eyes still twinkling with merriment before tilting his head a little in the direction of the platform "I do believe we have an audience."

Four pairs of eyes slid toward the two thrones, where the Queen was watching them with an amused gleam in her eye, her child now cradled in her arms as King Louis was distracted by a pot-bellied nobleman and his sour-faced wife. Anne offered a small twitch of her lips, eyes sparkling with joy and gave a slight nod that could only have been interpreted as gratitude, most likely relieving some of her increasing boredom and fatigue at the tiresome affair.

"Seems Her Majesty is amused by your immature playful antics." Athos commented drily, flexing his neck to the side to remove some of the stiffness in his limbs and allow a trickled of sweat drip down beneath his shirt.

"Who's talking on parade now, Athos." Aramis mumbled accusingly, all the while shooting the Queen a discreet, charming grin that could make any woman's heart melt.

Porthos gnawed on one lip to conceal a smile "I want to know who started this whole, dangerous conversation in the first place."

Aramis' and d'Artagnan's fingers jumped slightly from their sides simultaneously to face each other before narrowing their eyes when they saw each other's betraying gesture.

"Aramis, started it! He was giggling about the thought of me fainting!"

"I did not! I'm older than you, I wouldn't dream of doing something so childish."

"Maybe you're becoming senile and forgetful in your old age, Aramis."

Aramis' jaw dropped in horror as he narrowed his eyes at the boy beside him before remembering to conceal the dramatic gesture "I am not old! You're just an overgrown baby—can't even grow a moustache!"

"Overgrown baby?! I'll have you know that I ladies love the clean shaven look!"

Aramis scoffed immaturely "Makes you look like a twelve year old."

"Shut up!" Athos sighed in frustration and ground his teeth "Aramis, you're not old. D'Artagnan, you do not look twelve. And Porthos, stop antagonising them. You're giving me a headache, so can we please be quiet before my day gets any worse?"

There was a crunch of boots on the ground as a shadow fell across the four and they all stiffened and stared straight ahead as Treville stood before them, lips a tight line and face serious.

"I expect you see at dawn tomorrow, Athos, to muck out the stables and scrub down the horses and their tack." The Captain's voice was clear and cut like steel, tone leaving no room for argument "I expected more from you, you are meant to be teaching the newer Musketeers by example." His eyes flickered to d'Artagnan's face before continuing, voice laced in disapproval "I cannot have my best being so unruly as to talk during a royal parade. Let's see this does not happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course, Captain. I will see to it I do not make the mistake again." Athos' voice was bland, face impassive as the three Musketeers glanced guiltily at each other with a slight wince.

"Good." Treville murmured as he moved back toward the platform to stand this time by the Queen's side.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Athos groaned painfully and growled "You just had to make go and make it worse. I was innocent."

"…Er, 'Thos?"

"What is it Porthos? Athos sighed, resigned to his fate as the King finally stood and completed the ceremony, thanking all his guests and leading the way back toward the cool confines of the palace's great hall to be wined and dined.

"D'Art doesn't look so good."

Sure enough a couple of seconds later there was a thump as a very flushed Gascon hit the ground, his three brothers rushing around him as Aramis gave a gleeful yelp of: "I told you so!"


	4. The Bar Brawl

**Thank you for all the kind words awesome reviews! I am SO happy you guys found last chapter funny and are so far enjoying my work! Special love and hugs to all of you because I've been having the WORST week (save an awesome boyfriend I'm going out with on Friday x YAAY) and you all cheered me up and made me smile even when I've been feeling all down and mopey and haven't been productive at all and its all a bit pathetic for someone like me. So, thank you x Have a lovely week and please review x**

**The Bar Brawl**

Athos swallowed down another mouthful of bittersweet wine, the rim of the bottle cool against his lips and the neck warm under his hand as he tipped his head back. He sat alone at a rickety wooden table, concealed by the shadows in the darkened corner of the inn. The energy was beginning to die down, the last of the drunks staggering and stumbling through the door into the icy chill of the autumn midnight. The last of the working girls was giggling loudly as she dragged her latest customer upstairs to the rooms, the man pawing at her breasts and tugging at her skirts with a drunken mewl. A few tables away were six men were playing cards, the largest cackling as the youngest man with tanned skin cursed and handed over his bet.

"Why am I so bad at this game?" d'Artagnan cried in anguish, as the pot-bellied gentleman named Gerard leaned over with a smug sneer to snatch up his winnings.

Aramis offered a sympathetic frown as he patted the younger man on the shoulder "It's just not your game, d'Art. You lose some, you win some."

"Easy for you to say! You've won one hand at least and Porthos almost always wins."

Porthos chuckled lowly at the beaten look on d'Artagnan's face and knocked the tankard beside the Gascon's hand "It also might have something to do with the drink."

D'Artagnan huffed angrily, cheeks red and flushed as he swayed a little on his stool and Aramis had to reach over and grab his arm to steady him. The three other men around the table laughed at the drunken antics of the younger man, Gerard shuffling the cards steadily.

"I think the boy's all but done for tonight. Can't hold much drink, the lightweight."

Athos knew that to be entirely untrue since the young Musketeer had asked for at least two more rounds than anyone else but the low-life thugs that frequented this rather unsavoury inn—the type Porthos seemed to be attracted to, 'for the excitement' he said—were rather proud and arrogant it seemed. D'Artagnan grabbed the tankard once more, tipping his head back to drain the cup before slamming it back on the table.

"See," the young Musketeer stated in a cocky slur even as he almost knocked the empty cup off the table as he raised his inelegant limbs and Porthos had to catch it with quick reflexes and an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Right," Aramis stood up with a weary sigh "I think that's enough for you, my friend. We don't want you to bet away all your money when you're barely conscious."

"One more round." d'Artagnan hiccupped pathetically, tugging his arm from Aramis' lazy group to fall back against the table and almost fell off the seat again making the men around them snigger harder and Porthos shake his head.

Aramis sighed in resignation before dropping back into his seat "Fine. Just don't complain to me tomorrow when you wake up broke and with a terrible hangover."

"Deal." d'Artagnan ignored the Spaniard and leant heavily against the table as he met Porthos' eyes and Gerard passed the cards over to the other man to deal.

The cards flew from Porthos' hands with practised ease; sliding across the wood polished by wear to each participant till finally they were all sat with cards in hand. The corner of Aramis' eyes were wrinkled with disappointment, the other two men also bearing signs of misfortune on their all-too –readable faces and even Porthos appeared slightly disheartened though he covered it more easily and Gerard looked even smugger than he had the round before. D'Artagnan however was smiling behind his hand, an obvious expression written all over his body language even as he tried to cover it with weak nonchalance.

"Tell you what, I'll make this interesting.' d'Artagnan's voice was obnoxiously loud, a terrible indicator of his confidence and glee and Athos winced at the crassness to his tone "Since it's my last hand, I'm going all in."

The rest of the table, sans a very pleased Gerard, were staring at him incredulously as the Gascon shoved what remained of his pile into the centre and sat back with his arms folded across his chest.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis kept his voice just below a shout in disbelief "What in God's name are you thinking?!"

"Let the boy make his own mistakes." Gerard interrupted before the Gascon could yell at Aramis again.

"But-"

"Go, 'Mis." Porthos broke him off quietly, an unreadable expression on his face "We ain't gonna talk 'im out of it. You tried."

Aramis sat back with a defeated slump of his shoulders as he tossed his cards to the table "I fold."

D'Artagnan's grin widened as the other two men folded in turn, deciding the stakes were too high until Gerard sat forward, pushing his significant winnings into the centre of the table

"I'll accept your bet, _boy_."

Porthos raised an eyebrow at the other man before relenting with a cool shake of his head and a snap of his cards on the table "Out."

With a sneer and barely concealed glee Gerard lay his hand across the table. Three jacks and two tens; a full house. Aramis groaned as his covered his eyes with his hand and Porthos managed a sharp curse, Gerard's yellowed teeth bared in challenge as d'Artagnan's face fell.

"That's a good hand." d'Artagnan said dumbly, eyes glancing down to his own cards as Gerard laughed and reached over to snatch up the money "But…"

Everyone froze as d'Artagnan calmly placed his hand on the table and looked up to face Gerard with a grin. The Ace, King, Queen, Jack and Ten of Hearts lay flat on the table, a royal flush gleaming maliciously in the candlelight.

"…mine's better."

"That-that's impossible." Gerard stuttered, the colour drained from his face, making him look old and pale before it began to darkened to a raging purple "You cheated!"

The entire inn went deadly quiet as Gerard's chair fell back with a loud crash and d'Artagnan sat watching his with the same victorious grin.

"You cheated!" the man repeated as stood looking down at the young Gascon and d'Artagnan morphed into the picture of innocent, all big-wet doe eyes and a wounded expression. Athos was wont to believe him too as he, Aramis and Porthos rose from their chairs.

"I assure you, monsieur, that I would never do such a thing."

Gerard did not look convinced though as he lunged over the table with the realisation he had been played "Liar!"

D'Artagnan dodged nimbly backwards, with the skill of a most-definitely sober man, as the table tipped over and suddenly the entire inn erupted in chaos with punches flying and furniture breaking and people being drowned in money. Men tumbled over one another, shouting and tearing at everyone's clothing as d'Artagnan fled a furious Gerard, Porthos held off at least five men and Aramis—confirming Athos' suspicions that the entire game had been rigged between the three Musketeers—scooped up all their winnings into a purse and darted toward the back door on the inn. Athos dodged a drunken punch with a slight tilt of his body, rolling past the random patrons toward the door, taking an idle gulp of the last few drops before smashing the empty container across the back of another thug's head as he moved to smack Porthos with a chair in his distraction.

"Porthos!" he ordered and the large Musketeer spun round, three men clinging to his arms and back, the smile fading slightly as he reluctantly sighed and casually shook the men from his limbs before following Athos into the street where d'Artagnan was just disappearing around a corner at the end of the street, Gerard a few metres behind him as he tried to lose his tail. Athos watched his disappear before turning to the dishevelled Porthos, breathing heavily from excitement and adrenaline, rampant curls even more unruly than usual.

"Where did you all arrange to meet this time?"

"Your house. It has the most beds. And wine to celebrate."

Athos sighed and began walking determinedly in the direction of his apartment "Just once, could you three please tell me when you are planning a bar brawl."

"We didn't plan to be in a bar brawl." Athos raised an eyebrow "Okay, maybe we were hoping for one, but the point was to teach d'Art how to win at cards."

"At least you can do something right."

"Hey!"


	5. The Fall

**Hi again! Hope you all had a nice week! Another chapter with a little more whumpage this time ;) Only one favor to ask, can I have some prompts! My brain is too overworked to come up with anything creative at the moment (Physics sucks sometimes right!) so it would be really helpful if you wanted me to do anything x I've already got Jasperslittlesister's prompt finished (I know I said it was this chapter, but it's Chapter 8, I made it better hopefully) so please review and send me little things. Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoy his chapter because you're all so awesome (even more than me and I have awesome in my name...okay, I'll stop now).**

**The Fall**

Dawn broke over the sleepy city, a warm orange glow lighting up the streets and breaking through the cracks in creaky, peeling shutters. A gentle breeze-filled with the heavy scent of blossoming flowers from the fields afar-danced through the bare streets and the cockerels stirred their masters with their deep, throaty song. Gradually, the city began to awaken; the streets beginning to echo with the shuffling of heavy feet and the sharp clatter of horses' hooves pulling trundling carriage wheels across the dirty, uneven cobbles. The grand, twinkling palace stood omnipotent over the cramped, bare houses that surrounded it, a diamond in the rough, only comparing to the towering cathedral that stretched high into the bright blue sky. In the ancient spire, the golden bells burst into joyous song as they welcomed the newly risen sun and the early birds that followed; their peals reverberating through the air and making it vibrate with timeless music. Down below, the grey, swirling waters of the primordial river cut through the landscape like a weeping wound. Rolling with the waves, huge ships laden with exotic treasures and expensive goods creak and groan under the weight as bold sailors clamber up and down the rigging and hurry across the gangplanks. Voices of merchants fill the docklands as the rich men barter their price and shout and laugh jovially as they hang on the arm of a beautiful woman and drink away their sorrows.

High above the streets of Paris, upon the left bell tower of the magnificent Note Dame, a fierce battle raged. Swords flashed in the morning light, the clashing of metal against metal filling the air and the smell of freshly spilled blood was heavy as the Musketeers fought for King and country against the latest threat to France and her monarch.

Aramis himself was engaged in a deadly game of sword-play with two thugs, each slashing at him furiously as the Spaniard nimbly dodged and parried with the elegance and skill born of hours of training and years of practice. He managed to catch sight of Porthos brawling with a giant of a man and Athos at the opposite edge of the platform, sparring with their leader, teeth gritted as he met the other man blow for blow. Aramis could not see their youngest in the chaos of the battle, too preoccupied with defending himself as his two opponents lunged and swiped at him and he was forced backwards a couple of steps. His instincts warned him off his proximity to the edge of the tower and he danced slightly sideways to avoid miss-stepping and meeting a grim demise upon the cobblestones below. Seeing an opening it one man's defence, Aramis flicked him wrist, sending the bald man's blade skittering across the rooftop and he backed off to retrieve it whilst his partner pushed harder upon the Musketeer. Sweeping his rapier in a wide arc, Aramis blocked the next blow with his precious musket before sliding his blade between his assailant's ribs. The man groaned and fell away and Aramis was allowed a moment of satisfaction before there was an enraged yell and the bald assailant's shoulder connected with his shoulder, sending them both rolling across the floor with the force of the tackle.

Aramis had only enough time to process his heavy impact with the floor before suddenly he was slipping, his assailant grasping desperately at his clothing as they tumbled over the edge of the building. The Musketeer was left scrabbling for purchase as his chest scraped along the edge and his fingers scratched at the roof; weapons slipping carelessly from his grasp and sword skittering over the edge as he tried to get his grip. There was a guttural scream as Aramis' opponent lost his fight with gravity, hands tearing at the fabric of the medic's breeches and he fell to the ground with a crack of deathly silence. Heart in his mouth, Aramis was about to follow as his fingers slipped across the flat surface of the roof but strong hands gripped his wrists painfully and the Musketeer came to an abrupt and jolted descent that almost pulled his saviour from his perch.

"Aramis!"

Aramis looked up to see d'Artagnan's face a short distance above his, both hands around the medic's wrist to hold him up and his face was red and contorted from exertion and pain. Gasping, the medic reached up with his dangling hand to grip the younger man's, shoulders shaking with the strain from dangling over the edge. D'Artagnan slid forward again, having nothing to hold onto nor anything to balance Aramis' weight with, coming ever closer to tumbling over the lip of the bell tower and he cried out in agony as he strained to keep his grip on both Aramis and the roof.

"Let go of me!" Aramis pleaded, watching beads of sweat rolling down d'Artagnan's temples as he tried to Aramis upwards toward him with little success "Let go or we will both fall!"

Aramis' rapid heartbeat froze as they slipped another inch and d'Artagnan had to turn his torso to try and get some traction and he grunted against the pain "Shut…up. I'm not…giving…up…on you…don't…give...up…on me."

A tear rolled down Aramis' cheek as his brother fought desperately to save him and knew what he had to do. There was no time to lose. No time to argue. God was waiting for Aramis, but he was not waiting for the Gascon farm boy destined for greatness. Murmuring a soft prayer, Aramis loosened his fingers around d'Artagnan's wrists and sunk a few centimetres in response and there was a scraping sound as the Gascon's boots dug onto the platform.

"No!" the boy called desperately in alarm, face paling to a pallid, sickening grey as he gritted his teeth and Aramis winced against his harsh clutch "Don't…you dare…let go, 'Mis. You…are not…leaving us…like that."

"Please, d'Artagnan. There's no point in both of us dying. ." The heat in Aramis' eyes was nothing compared to the burning in his chest as his hands slipped a little further but d'Artagnan's bruising grip on his just tightened, his knuckles white as bone, hands trembling violently with the strain.

The stubborn boy ignored him, face twisted as he sucked in tense, harsh breaths and desperately tried to keep them both up; a battle he was clearly losing as Aramis felt him fall a little further, one desperate thought in his head as he wanted to wiggle free but feared both the power of gravity and that the stubborn brother of his would come tumbling with him.

"No!" d'Artagnan cried, breathless and loud as suddenly they careened forward, dropping down toward the streets of Paris.

Aramis felt weightless for another second before once again there was he was snapped up again and a savage cry escaped d'Artagnan's lips; the jerking motion causing Aramis to violently swing, ribcage connecting with the carved stone. Aramis felt the ache across his side, sharp and fresh, but he gritted his teeth and glanced up as a shadow fell across him, back illuminated by the orange glow of the rising sun. Porthos' outline was unmistakable against the pale background as he reached down to wrap his muscled arms around d'Artagnan's lithe waist and tugged him backwards, up and away, carrying Aramis' body along with him.

The relief of solid ground was indescribable and Aramis seriously considered kissing it after he was finished might and mercy of the Lord above. D'Artagnan's breathing was harsh and ragged, filled with pained grunting as Athos' calm, steady voice spoke quietly to him. The medic rolled onto his back, hand across his sweaty forehead as he stared up into the orange sky now streaked with blue and the golden clouds, thin and light and almost transparent in their majesty. Aramis took a few deep breaths of clean, fresh air before a shadow fell over his face and he could see Porthos looking down at him.

"Gave me a right scare there, 'Mis." He said, the obvious worry covered by the forced lightness of his tone "Thought you'd gone over for a minute."

Aramis couldn't hold back the humourless laugh "I almost did. Part of me feels like I did."

Porthos' expression darkened as he helped Aramis sit up and the Spaniard was just about to reassure him that he was just still in shock when a fist connected with a cheek and Athos made a cry of alarm. Pain exploded across Aramis' cheekbone and though it wasn't the hardest hit he'd ever take—and was much preferred to hanging off the Notre Dame—it still made him reel back slightly. When he turned back, d'Artagnan was leant into Athos' chest, cradling his left arm and hissing in agony but his dark eyes were wild with fear and fury as they stayed trained on Aramis.

"Don't you _dare _ever do that to me again, Aramis! Or I swear to God, I _will _kill you! That wasn't fair!"

Aramis stopped rubbing his pained cheek, guilt tearing at his heart "I'm sorry, d'Art-"

"No!" d'Artagnan interrupted angrily "Don't be sorry. Just promise me you will never _ever _ask me to let go. _Ever_."

"You asked him to let you fall?" Now Athos sounded furious and he could see equal parts concern and rage in his dark eyes.

Porthos' meaty hand fell across his shoulders "It's over now. We'll worry about it later, back at the garrison."

"Not until, 'Mis, promises!" d'Artagnan seemed to lose the heat of his words, tone more pleading, eyes wetter with fear rather than pain and looking far younger than Aramis had seen him.

"I promise, d'Artagnan. From the bottom of my heart, I won't make you have to choose."

Apparently satisfied, judgement clouded from pain and not realising quite the level of subtext behind Aramis' words, d'Artagnan went back to concentrating on his bad arm, knees bent as he pedalled his legs to try and control the pain as he gritted his teeth. Porthos was a comforting and warm presence against his side as Aramis reeled in his rampant emotions, released in his moment of weakness.

"What's wrong with d'Artagnan's arm?" Aramis asked, moving to get up so that he could care for his friend but Porthos' hand stopped him and he looked up to see the large man spare him a warning look that said 'Stay put, idiot.'

"It's probably dislocated from saving your backside, I'll sort it." Porthos moved from Aramis' shoulder to switch places with Athos, bracing d'Artagnan against him.

"Wait." the Gascon quickly stilled Porthos' hands in a gasp, and he gave him a puppy-eyed look "You're not going to do that thing Aramis does, are you?"

"What thing?"

"You know, when he says he's going to count to three then he sets it on two."

"Nah, course not, lad." Porthos smiled reassuringly, tone warm and comforting, all milk and honey "He's done it enough to me so I know the pain. Do you really think I'd do it to someone else?"

Apparently appeases, d'Artagnan nodded and relaxed into a more comforting position "Okay then. On three."

"Ready?" the larger man waited until d'Artagnan had prepared himself "Three!"

The joint popped back into place with a matching sound and the boy cried out, rocking back and forth, arm pulled protectively against his chest. Porthos quickly moved out of reach- lest the Gascon be tempted to hit him as he did Aramis—and watched sympathetically as the pain ebbed away and colour returned to d'Artagnan's cheeks as he turned on the giant with an angry, betrayed look.

"You just said you wouldn't do the Aramis thing."

Porthos shrugged with a small quirk of his lips "I didn't do the Aramis thing. I said on three; I never said I'd count upwards."

The young Gascon huffed, rolling his tender shoulder "I just thought you'd forgotten how to count,

"I can dislocate it a few more times and practice my counting."

"Kidding! Kidding!" d'Artagnan placated timidly, scooting back toward Athos for protection "Can we go now…preferably before Porthos hurts me."

"You did rather deserve it." Aramis smiled as he rose, Athos keeping him steady as he stood shakily on two feet.

D'Artagnan pretended not to flinch when Porthos helped him stand, though the larger Musketeer winked his forgiveness with a mocking smile.

"Let's go give Treville our report." Athos stated stoically, moving toward the exit and Porthos groaned.

"Can't we have breakfast first."

"No."

Aramis pouted "_Please_, Athos. I'm starving."

"_No_."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a glance before looking at the Gascon "D'Artagnan."

The Gascon smiled and released his ultimate weapon.

Athos raised an unimpressed eyebrow "Even with the puppy-eyes, the answers still no."


	6. Peace

**I'm sorry this is a day late, I've been unwell over the weekend, one of my best friends is in hospital and I've had three assessments today so I have been really overwhelmed. Thank you for everyone who reviewed or sent me a prompt, they are all up on my wall ready to be written whenever it becomes convenient and will begin around Chapter 9. This chapter is actually (hopefully) sad so please review and tell me if it worked x Also, if you want the full effect listen to BYU Vocal Point's 'Danny Boy' x**

**Peace**

It had been months of searching. Months of tireless hours; fighting and questioning and following every lead to every dead end and backing up to go find new ones. They had ridden countless miles, walked across endless fields, crossed choppy seas, all for one person.

One young man whom had the misfortune to be entrusted a weight that sat solely upon his shoulders. A mission that forced him from his country, his home and his brothers. Took him from everything he loved and left him with nothing but cherished memories and the flickering candle of hope in his heart.

Hope was a difficult thing to define, to understand. It was fragile like a new-born babe that must be nurtured and fed, like an unprotected flame on a cold winter's eve. But it was also strong; a tiny sapling that could grow under divine sunlight till it emerged a great oak, immovable and ancient against all forces.

The worst thing about hope was that it was both a gift and a curse. It could torture you; tear at your soul until you were left a hollow and broken husk, or it could bless you, fill you with a indescribable warmth that bloomed deep within your chest and kept you fighting for whatever future remained against insurmountable odds.

Porthos knew of hope. It had saved him and it had condemned him. Hope had rescued him from the vile depths of the Court of Miracles, lead him to the Musketeers but it had also doomed him to open his heart, lead him to the three brothers whom he loved so dearly.

When d'Artagnan had gone missing five months ago, Porthos, Aramis and Athos had sworn never to give up on their little brother, never to lose the hope of finding him. They all agreed they could not live with themselves if they abandoned him to his fate, resigned themselves to never knowing and so had begun their quest for their missing brother.

Those months had damn near killed them all, both physically and emotionally and were it not for his two brothers at his side, Porthos would have spiralled into hopeless depression long ago. There had low points and high points, but they kept pushing, kept reaching for the truth of where their little brother had disappeared off to.

When they tracked him to England, Porthos realised he hadn't felt happier in weeks, had laughed for the first time in months and Aramis had even cracked a joke or two. But whilst they had been celebrating their newest discovery, Athos had drowned himself in drink.

Athos had been the strongest out of all of them. Had held the group together through its darkest hours, consoled Porthos when he could bear the bad news no longer and talked Aramis off the ledge when the world became too much.

But that night, just before the dawn, Athos had hit rock bottom and Porthos had finally, truly realised how much d'Artagnan meant to them all. It was obvious that Athos feared Anne's involvement more than anything; he had revealed that from the very beginning. To follow his little brother, to the very country his wife had fled, the woman who had murdered his other brother was almost too much to bear. Porthos had never seen Athos so broken and that night they had curled up together, like the many they had before, and Aramis had retold the stories of d'Artagnan that they all remembered and cherished with his soft, dulcet tones.

Now, after all that work and pain and heartbreak, it was finally over.

A harsh costal wind buffeted against them, the air heavy with the scent of fresh sea salt and the crashing of the waves upon the rocky cliffs below. Porthos stood shoulder to shoulder with Athos, Aramis on his other side and breathed deeply.

The wooden cross before them was slightly weather-beaten, simplistic and dark against the lush green grass. The familiar leather of the pauldron with its intricate fleur-de-lis was slung over one arm of the crux, the material scuffed and in disrepair from the beating of the elements.

Porthos felt the tear trickle down his cheek as Athos staggered forward and stood over the cross and he managed a quick glance at Aramis who made no attempt to hide the sobs wracking his body.

It was strange, but looking down at the quaint looking cross that overlooked the English Channel, Porthos didn't feel the devastation he thought he would. They all knew that as the months crawled by, it was less and less likely it was they would see their little brother alive again.

But this...this fate atop this little hill on the edge of the cliff, the unmarked grave looking out toward France and his home, swallowed up by the beauty of the English countryside surrounded by the rich green pastures of patchwork fields and the pretty, pale flowers that flourished all around them...it wasn't bad.

Porthos could imagine d'Artagnan lazing in the grass, warm summer sun shining down on him as he laughed and talked, smiling radiantly up at him. He could imagine them rolling around in the soft grass as they practiced their hand to hand and Porthos wrestled him to the ground whilst Aramis doubled over in laughter and Athos warned them to stay away from the cliff edge.

Somehow Porthos knew that d'Artagnan would like this, that he was at peace here, that he could happily go to sleep here in blissful eternity.

It didn't stop Porthos from crying, when Aramis fell into his embrace, burying his face into his chest, Porthos clung to him and wept into his curly hair unashamedly. He had lost his brother, he had a right to mourn and he was thankful that they were alone amongst the sea air and the rolling grassland.

When Athos bent down and knelt at the grave, hand falling to the other side of the wooden cross and gripping it tightly, Porthos and Aramis released one another to stand either side of him, hands on each shaking shoulder.

"Goodbye. Sleep peacefully, little brother. One day we shall meet again."

Athos' voice was soft, choked as he cried but there was the faintest smile on his face. Slowly, gently, Aramis knelt down beside Athos as well.

"We'll miss you." Aramis whispered delicately, fingers carefully removing the rosary from around his neck as he leant forward and hooked it over the cross so that the golden object hung loosely against the varnished wood "There will not be a day that goes by that we will not think of you."

Porthos took a shaky breath, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks as he too knelt and bowed his head to the grave of his little brother, the image of the boy grinning at him on his eyelids "We love you, little brother. Don't you ever forget that."

Swallowing past the heavy lump in his throat, Porthos looked up at the tearful smiles on his brothers' faces as the knelt at the foot of d'Artagnan's grave.

"Ready?"

Aramis nodded, slow and deliberate as he stood "He's happy here."

Athos seemed more reluctant as he leant forward and kissed the wood before he bowed his head and carefully rose to his feet.

"Farewell, Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. May you rest in peace until the day we all may stand side by side as brothers again."

Then Athos turned and Porthos could see that his heavy heart was lifted as he threw an arm over the older man's shoulder and Aramis chuckled as he leant into Athos' other side. Together they walked down the hillside, leaving alone the small wooden cross staring out toward France and knowing that above them a young Gascon looked down at his older brothers and smiled.


	7. Translation Please?

**I beg your forgiveness! I am so sorry for the late update but life...well it's been getting away from me. I'm working hard at school but not getting the grades I so desperately want and I was ill all last week and I've had such terrible, debilitating writer's block but I'm catching up and I'll try to stay regular. Thank you all for being so patient and I promise that this chapter will be a lot less sad than last time. Enjoy and have a fantastic weekend and please leave me a review x Also, for those of you who left me prompts, they are post-sticked on my wall and planned out so I will get round to them...eventually and thank you so much for all the awesome prompts because they are so much fun and let me add a lot of depth to carry on throughout chapters.**

**Translation Please?**

"Well this is fun."

Athos raised an eyebrow at Aramis, feeling the carriage jolt as it rolled over yet another bump along the dirt road and forced back a wince as the ropes cut further into his wrists. Porthos lifted his head to look at his best friend from his place beside Athos, eyes dark and vicious, matching the purple bruising that marred his face.

"That's 'cause you haven't been punched in the face…repeatedly."

"Or gagged." Athos commented, nodding toward d'Artagnan who was sat beside Aramis, looking furious at the cloth in his mouth as he made his own muffled protest.

Aramis glanced at the young man beside him "It was your own fault though. I didn't even know you had such a dirty mouth."

If looks could kill, then Aramis would have been just a pile of ash across the wooden flooring. Porthos sniggered loudly and Athos shot Aramis a slightly warning look as the carriage rocked again.

"I wish they'd gagged you instead." Porthos muttered audibly and Aramis gave him a mock-hurt look and moved his arm to touch his heart before remembering it was secured behind his back making the motion look rather gracefully awkward as it tugged at his wrists.

"I'm hurt, Porthos." Aramis looked wide-eyed and innocent and d'Artagnan scoffed behind his gag "However, I forgive you since I'm in a good mood."

D'Artagnan said something, incomprehensible due to the cloth in his mouth and Porthos gave him an sympathetic look "Sorry lad, can't understand you."

"He said 'How can you be in a good mood?'" Athos supplied helpfully, face a blank mask as the others-including d'Artagnan- looked at him, surprised.

"You understood him?"

Athos raised an eyebrow as though Aramis had asked the most blatantly obvious question in the world so they shrugged and continued.

"I'm happy because we actually have relatively comfortable transportation this time." Aramis explained with his cheery smile and looked to d'Artagnan "Last time I was captured I was thrown over the pommel of a saddle on my stomach and ended up black and blue for weeks. I was surprised I didn't suffer internal bleeding; my kidnappers were appalling horsemen."

"Stop being so dramatic, 'Mis."

Athos rested calmly, eyes closed and breathing deep; the picture of ease "I think our captors are rather stupid."

"What do you mean, 'thos?" Porthos asked in confusion as d'Artagnan's eyes lit up and he made an excited series of noises-strung into what resembled a sentence- that were muted by the gag.

"Well done, d'Artagnan." Athos' eyes flickered open and he nodded in pleased acknowledgment before meeting the others' gaze and sighing exasperatedly "We're being taken down a more public road away from Paris in a stolen carriage belonging to a rather wealthy merchant."

Porthos blanched "We're the perfect target for bandits."

"How do you get that from d'Artagnan's squeaking?" Aramis demanded and d'Artagnan elbowed him viciously in the ribcage and made an indignant series of sounds.

"He does not squeak." was Athos' nonchalant translation, his emotionless tone contrasting to d'Artagnan's angry noises.

"Enough!" Porthos sighed exasperatedly, looking like he wanted to put his head in his hands "I have a headache and this doesn't help; we can discuss how Athos can speak fluent 'whelp-squeak' later. What are we gonna do about bandits?"

Again, if d'Artagnan had been blessed at birth with the power to incinerate people with his eyes there would be two mounds of charred Musketeer on the floor. The Gascon mumbled another unfathomable few words but Athos coughed quickly when the others turned to him for a translation.

"It seems he dislikes the term 'whelp' but I'm sure d'Artagnan would be overjoyed to share his rather…strong…opinions of you on his own at a later date."

Porthos couldn't fight back the smile "Embarrassed that your protégé can swear better than most sailors? Aren't you such a rich boy; insulted by a little bad language."

"You didn't understand what he said." Athos raised an eyebrow at the larger man who nodded as he relented.

"You are so just making this up. How could you possibly understand all _that _from some 'whelp-squeaking'?" Aramis stated challengingly, ignoring the dangerous growl that left d'Artagnan's throat.

"This is neither the time nor the place to argue about such things." The firm order was only subtly disguised due to Athos' respectable upbringing "Porthos is right, we should make a plan; hopefully to escape before we are discovered by any bandits in the area."

"Bandits would be a perfect distraction though; we could slip out in the chaos." Porthos supplied, looking between the three to gauge their reactions.

Aramis pulled a rather worried face "A little risky though, don't you think? Who's to say we won't get recaptured again, or worse they might decide that they aren't too fond of Musketeers."

"Fighting our way out seems unlikely in our current condition." Athos countered easily, a slight furrow on his brow the only indication of his deep thought "If a distraction were to come along our main obstacle would be to escape our ties."

At this d'Artagnan made another series of sounds and Athos cocked his head to one side as he followed the suppressed words that managed to escape the cloth.

"Aramis, d'Artagnan has a knife concealed up his right sleeve. Can you reach it?"

Porthos laughed loudly at the revelation, eyes wide with surprise and pride "Well done, lad. How'd you pull that one off?"

"A story for another time." Athos interrupted and shot the Spaniard opposite him a look, signalling for him to act "Aramis."

"I know, I know. Turn a bit, d'Art."

The two men shuffled steadily round so they were back to back and Aramis began trying to extricate the small blade from d'Artagnan's sleeves and tied wrists. After a few seconds, the Gascon made a sharp protest and glared at Aramis over his shoulder.

"_Right_ wrist, Aramis."

Aramis glanced over at Athos with a frustrated huff "Alright, alright. It's more difficult than it looks. Everything's reversed and my nimble hands aren't exactly in the most comfortable-or controllable-position either."

A few more seconds and a broad grin spread across the Marksman's face "I think I've got it! I've just got to carefully…"

D'Artagnan made another stark, muted outcry after which they both abruptly froze.

"What happened?" Porthos questioned worriedly, glancing between the two as they began to move and Aramis winced.

"Sorry, d'Artagnan." Aramis apologised with a brief twist of his head before turning to the two opposite "It slipped, I swear."

D'Artagnan looked murderous but seemed to regain at least some composure and he breathed in deep, calming breaths through his nose before muttering something behind the gag.

"The knife is poking into his back, Aramis, behind his hands. Whatever you do, d'Artagnan, do _not_ lean back."

The angry retort was rapid and once again it became fortunate for Athos that fate had not gifted d'Artagnan with the ability to burn people to death with his eyes.

Porthos laughed "Let me guess that went something like 'Funnily enough, Athos, I wasn't going to'?"

"Perhaps some kinder words may need to be substituted."

Once again they were interrupted by another expletive from d'Artagnan that sounded vaguely like a certain Medic's name and Aramis had the grace to blush as Athos supplied "Don't laugh. Your hands are shaking."

"I promise I won't stab you, d'Art." Aramis said helpfully, hands moving more slowly behind him as he carefully extracted the knife from its position between them "I mean, then I'd get blood on me and have to patch you up and neither of us would have a great day."

"You call this a 'great day'?"

Porthos snorted and looked mischievously over at Athos "It will be when we get free and d'Art rips Aramis' head off. I'm kinda looking forward to it."

"Can we focus please, gentlemen?" Athos muttered tiredly, eyes flicking between them.

They were interrupted by a triumphant laugh escaping Aramis' lips and the medic twisted slightly against d'Artagnan as they boy seemed to visibly sag in relief and the glint of a silver hilt became just visible.

"See, d'Artagnan," Aramis smiled warmly over his shoulder as he began sawing at his ties "I didn't cut you. Hands of a trained surgeon."

D'Artagnan grunted and Athos translated in a similar, disapproving tone "Shut up, Aramis."

A scowl crossed Aramis' face for half a second before there was a reassuring snap and the frayed rope fell from the medic's wrists and he let out a sweet "Taadaa!", rubbing his tender wrists carefully. D'Artagnan squeaked to focus Aramis' attention once more but the Spaniard just winked and took the knife over to Athos, slicing quickly through his bounds before moving onto Porthos. Taking pity on his protégé, Athos took a careful step across to d'Artagnan, trying to keep steady against the rocking of the carriage and pulled the gag from his mouth.

"I swear, Aramis, when we get out of this, not even God will be able to save you from me."

Aramis laughed as he finished freeing Porthos "You sound so cute when you're angry. I can't even take your threats seriously."

"Grave. Digging." Porthos warned with a tilt of his head, standing shakily and leaning against the wall as Aramis probed at his face whilst trying to ward the younger man off "You might want to stop antagonising the whelp now, 'MIs."

"Don't call me 'whelp'!"

"I preferred him with the gag on."

Aramis grinned cheekily over at d'Artagnan as the boy growled dangerously and Athos placed a calming hand on his shoulder, not entirely certain whether the Gascon was going to leap forward and throttle his fellow Musketeer.

"Shall we leave before d'Artagnan decides to kill one of us?"

Porthos sniggered "Pfft. Highly ambitious of the kid, Musketeers don't die easy."

"I'm willing to test that theory." d'Artagnan snarled with a dark, murderous look in his eye and Porthos went quiet and took a slight step back.

"Leaving sounds like a good idea."

"Scaredy Cat." Aramis teased knocking shoulders with the larger man before moving over to the door and carefully crouching down by the carriage door to investigate "It's not locked."

Athos could literally feel d'Artagnan gritting his teeth as he replied "Perhaps we should go then, you know, before any of the bandits show up."

"We have no weapons."

"We have a knife."

Porthos shrugged "We've done more with less."

"We don't need to fight our way out necessarily." Athos reasoned calmly, senses hyper aware of the sounds of men's voices outside, the rattle of stones beneath the wheel and the heavy breathing of his companions "Aramis, can you take a look outside and determine our captors positions."

"Yes, Aramis, do something useful."

Athos gave d'Artagnan a warning squeeze but when Aramis turned he just looked amused.

"Who cut us all free?"

"With who's knife?"

"Children." the eldest Musketeer reprimanded slightly patronisingly "You both were equally useful. Now can we escape before our captors realise quite how useful you are."

Aramis smiled and opened the door a crack, and used his keen sniper eyes to spy whilst Porthos whispered "D'Artagnan should be quiet. They might be suspicious if they hear four voices."

"Why can't you be quiet?"

"I wasn't the one who was gagged, plus I highly doubt my voice sounds anything like yours."

Aramis leaned back into the carriage with a small click of the door "You sound too high and girly for Porthos."

"Maybe you should be quiet then."

"Enough. Both of you just be quiet." Athos resisted the urge to sigh exasperatedly and wished, not for the first time that day, that he had a bottle in his hand "Aramis, what did you see?"

"I thought I was being quiet?" Seeing Athos' dark glare, Aramis swallowed nervously and the mischievous fire in his eyes died "I could see four men out front, two behind."

"But there were twenty before." d'Artagnan replied sardonically and Aramis glared at him.

"Well there aren't now."

Athos sighed and concentrated on the task "They must have split up, possibly to avoid detection. A big group would be more noticeable on the road."

"Which means there might be Musketeers on our tail." Porthos suggested with a triumphant grin.

"Quite possibly." Athos agreed with a twist of his lips "It would explain their behaviour. Any suggestions for how we escape this carriage and reunite with our comrades?"

"We should get d'Artagnan to use his big, brown puppy eyes." Aramis winked in the Gascon's direction and the boy scowled.

Porthos groaned "Can you two kiss and make up already?"

"No." they replied in unison as d'Artagnan continued "He started it."

Athos was about ready to call their captors and demand they gag them both so he could have some peace and quiet "Enough. We'll have to sneak out and head for the trees, find some cover and then follow the road back to Paris."

"Hopefully we'll run into some friendly faces before then." Porthos smiled hopefully and Athos gave a nod and small twitch of the lips in reply.

"Fine." d'Artagnan groaned indignantly, realising their unsaid suggestion and giving in as he held a hand out to Aramis "Truce?"

The Spaniard raised an eyebrow at the outstretched appendage and hesitated. With a disapproving frown, Porthos elbowed him viciously in the ribs and Aramis let out a high pitch yelp which Athos quickly shushed before taking d'Artagnan's hand.

"As a fair gentlemen, I accept you surrender."

"Truce." his three companions corrected him sternly and Aramis sighed dramatically with a shake of his head.

"Truce."

With that battle over, the four Musketeers focussed on the task ahead of them. The ensuing escape inevitably deviated spectacularly from their original plan and ended in a battle for the ages and a long, _long_ lecture from Treville. But at the end of the day, the four sat around the small table in Athos' rooms; new bumps and bruises bandaged, food heavy in their stomachs, warmth in their veins, wine in hand and light banter bouncing back and forth between them. When Treville went to check on his Musketeers, he found Athos slumped in his chair, head on his chest, Porthos was slouched on his chair, snoring loudly and limbs splayed whilst Aramis sat quietly between his legs and d'Artagnan looking contented even in sleep as he rested his head in the Spaniard's lap.


	8. Missing

**Hi strangers! Hope you had a fantastic Christmas! I was tempted to provide my own Christmas special but alas, life got in the way. I am so sorry that this chapter has taken so long but I had this Medlink conference thing that kept me away from my computer, then various holiday events and finally my computer isn't working properly, hurray! Anyway, I'm back though I can't promise my updates will be any more regular than they have been given my heavy study schedule. This chapter was written in reponse to a prompt from Jasperslittlesister where Aramis is either kidnapped or in trouble and Porthos comes to save the day, so tis is for you as a big thank you and to show people who left all these great prompts, I haven't forgotten you. Have a great New Years and I wish you and your families all the fun in the world, just look out for yourselves x**

**Missing**

"Where on earth is he?!" Porthos growled impatiently, pacing back and forth in the street as he looked both directions "He was meant to meet us here. It was his idea in the first place."

It was late evening; the sun had just set beneath the dark line of the horizon setting a last burst of fire across the black line so orange crept into the navy blanket above. A cool breeze danced through Paris, the chill unforgiving against anyone unprepared and the three Musketeers stood just outside the shadow of the garrison, away from the rest of hubbub of activity inside and out of sight of their Captain lest he call them back for another troublesome duty that would inevitably end in disaster. The streets of Paris were now mostly empty; save for some rowdy young men, women dressed in rather scandalous clothing and a couple of early, elderly drunks who had spent the afternoon in the taverns. Athos was stood stiffly, tired from the trials of the day and gasping for a drink whilst d'Artagnan was leant against the wooden beam outside a street shop, arms crossed across his chest as he slouched sleepily back with his head tipped back to the clear skies. Porthos continued to pace the width of the street irritably, a heavy weight shifting in his chest.

"Perhaps he has forgotten our arrangement. It would not be for the first time." Athos said lowly, voice deep in the surrounding quiet.

Porthos shook his head "Nah, he promised. He wouldn't leave us without givin' a message to one of us."

"Didn't he say he was meeting someone?" d'Artagnan asked quietly, eyes still closed "Who was it this time…Madame Rue? No, no that was his plan for the weekend. Madame Dijon? Or was that Monday when he got me in trouble with Treville when I had to cover for him after he left patrol early and left me to catch five armed robbers we've been chasing- for what, twelve weeks now?-all on my own which ended in two of them escaping?"

"Alright, lad, we get the point. 'Mis ain't perfect and he's done some things he shouldn't and let us down from time to time; but he wouldn't just abandon us like this."

Athos raised an eyebrow at the giant "This is hardly abandoning us. It's just…inconvenient."

"You are too nice sometimes, 'thos." d'Artagnan mumbled tiredly, eyes cracking open to look at his brother "Besides, shouldn't you know where 'Mis is?"

Porthos looked affronted as he took a defensive step back "Don't look at me, I'm not his keeper!"

"You kinda are." d'Artagnan tilted his head to the side with a thoughtful frown.

"Shouldn't you be looking after, 'Mis, as our fearless leader?" Porthos accused with an intense look in Athos' direction.

"I was under the impression we shared responsibilities for our teammates. After all, looking after d'Artagnan is a full time arrangement."

D'Artagnan was too tired to even protest and just shrugged half-heartedly in agreement "Aramis and I are rather big troublemakers."

"They've even started a competition." Athos supplied unhelpfully.

"I'm winning." The Gascon sounded far too triumphant about the fact and Porthos sighed in exasperation.

"Exactly, Aramis always seems to find trouble. What if he's done it again?"

Athos gave in with a deep exhale and moved closer to rest a hand upon Porthos' tense shoulders "Alright, I see your point. What was the last thing he said to you?"

"He said he was going down to the harbour, I asked if it was to visit his latest mistress and he promised he was done with women for a while, sounded real weird about it to…but that was a while ago." Porthos explained quietly, eyes darting to the end of the street where a woman was giggling rather fanatically as some drunken fool tugged at her waist.

Athos looked slightly perturbed by his words but quickly covered it with his usual stoic expression "Yes, well, why don't you go investigate the harbour and see if he's there and I'll go check some of his usual haunts. D'Artagnan can go to the inn in case Aramis assumes we've gone there if he comes here and we'll all meet there in an hour."

"Sounds like a plan." the Gascon yawned, pushing himself straight and beginning to walk down the street with a wave over his shoulder "Good luck."

"Thanks, Athos." Porthos said graciously but Athos allowed just a small quirk of his lips.

"Think nothing of it." Athos replied easily, tone reassuring and honest "It has been a long week for all of us. Though I must ask that you forgive d'Artagnan's short temper; Treville has been especially harsh on his training and I am under the impression he hasn't been sleeping very well."

"You don't need to ask, Athos. I know how hard the lad's been working and Aramis really messed up on this week, he has every right to be angry with him. I'm just-something's wrong, Athos, I just know it."

Athos nodded his acceptance "I am not foolish enough to dismiss your instincts, Porthos. May I at least offer a word of caution during your search?"

"We both know it wouldn't do any good."

"Indeed." the corner of the elder Musketeer's lips quirked in a concealed smile before he turned and strode confidently into the night, leaving Porthos alone to follow his own path.

Porthos took a deep breath of the cool air and plunged into the depths of Paris, weaving his way through well know streets. The cobbles were a filthy mix of excrement, muck and rubbish, the pathetic sewage systems bubbling and overflowing in places and the air was thick with the stench of rot and effluence that could make one dizzy with its intensity. Deciding he has enough of the rough, blurred picture of the streets-so dark and oppressive and home to those hungry animals who preyed on those pitiful creatures mad enough to navigate the streets under the cover of darkness—Porthos did not even have to think as he traced a path his legs knew better than his mind and leapt up onto a low stack of boxes then up onto the roofs of Paris.

Up above the clamour and miasma of Paris, Porthos carefully and quickly flew across the rooftops; crouched low for balance as his raced across the slates and hopped between the buildings. The air was fresher here, clean and gentle as it flowed deep within his lungs and circulated through his weary body, making his blood pump with renewed energy. Something fluttered in his chest, like a bird taking flight, the knots and strains in his muscles uncoiling with the sudden sense of freedom. However, the pit in Porthos' stomach remained, heavy and bubbling, like being stuck on a small rowing boat in a powerful, raging storm. The cool breeze carried the sound of boats knocking together, the dull clunking of various ropes and bells and wood, the gentle shush of waves breaking against bows. Porthos finally caught sight of the slight glint of torchlight across the harbour, illuminating small patches of darkened, murky water orange and casting a silhouette of ships bobbing on the water; huge merchant ships low in the water, laden with treasures and materials that sat side by side with the smaller boats, wearied and battered from a life of the rough seas. Some wizened sailors were coming on and off one of the larger vessels that had just reached the port, carrying heavy round barrels and wheeling goods down wide planks, calling to each other tiredly in loud and thick voices.

Swinging to a small outcrop than sliding down the slanted surface onto a balcony, Porthos looked out over the harbour, eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of his friend. Seeing no sign of Aramis, Porthos continued across the lower rooftops, eyes trained on the streets below but footing still steady as he moved swiftly. A suspicious sound emanated from below him as he jumped the gap over a narrow alley between the buildings and he almost lost his footing when he landed, having been so distracted by the burst of noise. One foot scraping across the tiles, Porthos wobbled momentarily before righting himself and bowing low to peer at into the darkness. Suddenly the shadows became a group of men and it didn't take long for Porthos to recognise the signature red cloaks of the Cardinal's guard and instantly the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and his hand reached for the musket at his belt.

They seemed to be tussling with someone, half dragging the slumped figure down the alley and Porthos could recognise that shadow from a mile away.

_Aramis_.

Porthos' body was moving even before he had formed the thought to help; scaling the wall despite the precarious drop that he would otherwise have avoided before leaping down upon his prey, like a hawk swooping in, talons sharp and deadly. The unfortunate man who he landed on went down with a strangled cry as he softened Porthos' descent and the next few minutes were a blur of action, fighting for survival at its dirtiest and a moment later, Porthos was stood, bloody and battered, dead or badly injured men laying prone around him, cloaks indistinguishable from the pools of crimson leaking from them. Breathing heavily and ignoring the ache across his ribs, Porthos crouched down beside his brother, still a silhouette in the darkness of the alley, reaching to touch the Spaniard's shoulder and help him sit up.

"Aramis…talk to me." Porthos didn't mind the pathetic plea, that slight crack in his voice as his fingers tightened into the worn leather of Aramis' jacket.

The shadow nodded, chin lifting so that Porthos could now see Aramis' pale face and the circle of bruising around his eye, the puffiness of his lip "I hear you, Porthos."

"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Porthos chuckled shakily in relief and he resisted the urge to crush Aramis in a hug "Y'alright?"

"You'd hate to see the other guys."

Porthos smiled at the whisper of Aramis' voice, still light with humour as the younger man winced and held his arm close to his chest "I don't know. Pretty close competition right now. What's wrong with your arm?"

"Pretty sure it's broken."

"Pretty sure? And you're meant to be our medic."

Aramis scoffed and then groaned loudly "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"Now you know how I feel whenever I'm around you." Porthos ignored Aramis' undignified squawk of protest before removing the scarf from around his neck and beginning to fix a makeshift sling "You okay to walk? Good. D'Art and Athos are waiting for us at the tavern and I've got a lovely tankard of beer with my name on it."

"I wouldn't normally say this but copious amounts of alcohol sound good right now."

Porthos chuckled as he finished gently tying Aramis' arm in a sling "Only time copious amounts of alcohol sounds bad is when you've got a bad hangover…actually, everything sounds bad when you have a hangover."

"Hmmm." the injured man hummed softly in agreement and Porthos tightened his grip on Aramis' shoulder and tapped his cheek.

"You okay, buddy?"

Aramis' eyes fluttered shut and he sagged into Porthos a little more "Fine, I just need some beauty sleep."

"More like a beauty coma, 'Mis." Porthos joked, worry lacing his tone "Come on, lazy-bones, get your bloodied ass up."

"Even bloodied it's still beautiful."

Aramis' smirk was dimmer than usual but Porthos felt some tension in his chest unwind trepidatiously and he patted the younger man lightly on the back "I think that's a concussion talking."

"You're just jealous, Porthos." Aramis pouted fondly, and reached up to wrap his good arm across his broad shoulders "Now help me stand up."

"Wouldn't you rather a carried you like the blushing bride you are?"

"Is that a proposal?"

"Marry you? And have ya lecture me every day about how I should clean my boots and not to leave my socks on the window sill or to trim my beard 'cause you can't be seen in public with someone so scruffy'." Porthos tilted his head to look at Aramis, unimpressed "Oh, wait… you already do that."

"We're practically a married couple already." Aramis smiled proudly as Porthos balanced him against his hip and pulled him up.

"You alright, _dear_?" Porthos teased as Aramis grunted a little in discomfort and sagged against him "Do I need to retrieve somethin' to fan you with if you swoon?"

"Who said I was the wife?"

"Who says the wife has to be the one to swoon? Why can't it be the husband?"

"So you're admitting you're the girl in this relationship?"

"No. I'm bigger and more muscular than you."

"Why can't girls be big and muscular?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow and paused for a moment "…Touché."

Aramis grinned at his words and seemed to straighten a little, regaining some form of strength "Even injured I can keep up with you."

"Remember who's carryin' you, 'Mis." Porthos warned quietly, adjusting his grip on his friend as they limped out into the empty streets "I ain't above droppin' you if it'd shut you up."

"I'm surprised that your honour would allow you to do something as cruel as drop your injured brother in arms…on his arm."

Porthos shrugged lightly, so as not to jar Aramis' injured arm "Yeah, well, maybe you should learn to be less irritating. Or better yet, just don't get hurt, save me a lot of worry and grey hairs."

"But then I'd lose my competition with d'Artagnan!" Aramis protested, catching his foot on the uneven cobbles and Porthos almost had a heart attack when he jerked down suddenly.

"Careful, 'Mis!" Porthos cried in surprise before balancing the other man's weight and wincing in sympathy at the pained look on the Spaniard's face "I'd rather not see either of you hurt. Why don't you and d'Art just have a competition as to who can get hurt the least?"

Aramis went quiet as he pondered for a moment on the suggestion "That's…actually a good idea. And with the score as it is now, it would mean I was winning!"

"'Mis, I think you're kinda missin' the point-"

"Porthos! Aramis!"

Porthos' head snapped up to see Athos and d'Artagnan hurrying down the street to join them, both looking decidedly worried as they moved swiftly over.

"What happened?" Athos demanded, voice low with anxiety and the lines on his face deepened.

D'Artagnan sounded almost childlike as he hung a short distance from Aramis' shoulder "I-is he okay?"

"I'm fine." Aramis sounded a little annoyed that the Gascon thought he couldn't answer for himself before glancing over at Athos "Just had an unpleasant meeting with some Red Guards."

Athos' eyes grew dark and murderous, shoulders stiffening and even d'Artagnan looked slightly meek beside him, anger in his eyes underlined with dark bags that showed his exhaustion.

"It was rather more unpleasant for them when I got there, Athos." Porthos' tone didn't hide the implication in his words and the elder Musketeer looked slightly appeased.

"We'll head for my apartments." It was an order not a request.

D'Artagnan's eyes lifted from Aramis' injured arm "I'll go fetch the physician."

Athos' expression turned pinched and Porthos couldn't decide if he was worried that the boy might run into more trouble or if he was concerned that d'Artagnan might push himself too much in his exhausted condition.

"Alright." he finally conceded, hand touching the Gascon's shoulder "But be careful."

D'Artagnan turned to leave as Aramis called his name, spinning back around to face his sweaty, bloodied brother.

"Thank you, d'Art. It means a lot."

D'Artagnan just smiled and replied in the best answer Porthos imagine "All for one and one for all."

Aramis grinned as d'Artagnan took off into the night and Porthos squeezed him a little tighter as he whispered "It's alright, 'Mis. We've got you. We've always got you."


	9. Tears

**Hi friends! So this chapter is gonna be sad, hence the title, but it was one of those dark, evil plot bunnies that just won't stop sitting on your shoulder and rubbing it's fluffy face against your ear and I'm really tickilish. So I gave in and wrote it, with a little experimentation with my writing style. I feel like a horrible person saying I hope this makes you cry, it made me tear up a bit when I was writing it. Have had a hectic first week back at school so to those of you suffering alongside me, good luck and to the rest of you I hope you had a great week. I want to dedicate this to my new friend Rita Marx because I've been enjoying our PM's.**

**Tears**

D'Artagnan's chest ached. An intense, potent, violent pain that threatened to burst through his ribs. An agony so profound it made burning tears rush down his cheeks, head pounding, eyes caustic and throat raw from the forcible sobs as his body shook so intensely he thought he was shaking apart.

Was he dead? He felt like he should be. He _wished _he was. Anything to escape this…this state of depression stabbing at his heart and making him feel like he was bleeding out inside.

D'Artagnan curled deeper into his sheets, allowing them to ensnare him in a suffocating ball of safety, where no one could see him, where he could allow his sanity to crumble away in peace.

Every time he shut his eyes…_every time…_he was back there; back in that hellish moment that destroyed him, crushed his heart and stole the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Choking.

Choking.

_Choking._

Voices echoed through the locked door. Words muffled, heavy with fear and worry and anxiety, filled with other emotions. Because they knew. They knew better than anyone. Why he was feeling this. What he was feeling. The nightmares-those terrible nightmares-that had finally come to pass in as though they were horrific premonitions of the future, those ones that had haunted him night upon night, leeched into his days but then-

_He said they weren't real._

Fresh tears spill down d'Artagnan's face; a perpetual waterfall that drained all the fluid from his body, made the white pillow beneath damp and cold.

More knocking.

_Go away._

_Go away, go away, goawaygoawaygoaway-_

_Go away!_

It was all his fault. If he had done something; moved faster, trained harder, fought better, been a Musketeer, maybe they could have all escaped this, this abyss of cold and dark and loneliness.

"D'Artagnan!"

There's his name again. They shouldn't have to say his name. It was his fault. They lost their friend. They buried their brother. Just a cross and a pauldron and a memory that lingered in their broken hearts.

_Broken_.

His father had once told him that death was easy, that the dead didn't suffer; it was the ones left behind that were in Hell.

"Please, d'Art."

The heavy guilt makes d'Artagnan's stomach twist and wrench and knot. They are family. The only family he has left. He can't be without them. He needs to face them.

_He needs them._

He stumbles almost drunkenly to the door. He can still hear them. Talking quietly to each other-his brothers-soft voices with equally soft words; calm, caring, supporting one another but underneath he can hear the stress and the pain. He can't do this to them. They need one another. All for one and one for all.

He touches the door handle. Cold, solid beneath his hand and he flinches away as if burned.

That cold. It flashes up his arm and now he's not in his room.

_It's wet. Rain pouring, thunder crashing, lightening flashing. D'Artagnan kicks his opponent into the mud, dark hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping off his nose as he looks up. Around him the sounds of battle are raging, Musketeers mixed with men, blood mixed with slush sloshing around on the ground. D'Artagnan catches sight of Aramis in the crowds of duelling men, watches as he sidesteps and takes down the man his is engaged with, eyes focussed and the silver metal of his sword scintillating in the spark of levin in the storm. A shadow approaches from behind and d'Artagnan calls his name in alarm. But Aramis is already brandishing his pistol and spinning round, blasting his assailant in the chest and sending him back into the muck. Cocky as ever, Aramis turns and winks at d'Artagnan, tipping his sodden hat and displacing a small pool of water collected there before he flies back into battle, as elegant as he is lethal, a dancer with a blade._

_Porthos is Aramis' complete opposite. Heavy, broad and strong; he wields his blade with the same expertise, the same level of deadliness transformed into something less balletic, an immovable force that batters others aside and shatters metal and bone. The number of opponents does not faze him, nor do their size and he grins, wide and feral, sure in his footing when other men would fear to fall as he faces off against the men surrounding him. D'Artagnan knows he does not need to help him as he spins round, blocking another man's strike and dealing another with pernicious accuracy, eyes darting around for his leader._

_There._

_Athos moves like the lightening in the sky. He lacks the flamboyancy of Aramis, the brutality of Porthos; but he rather inherits the two, calm and collected as his usual self whilst he flourishes his weapon masterfully. None could deny that Athos was unbeatable with a blade, his virtuoso and character reflected in the careful balance of his blade, the strict position with which he held himself. Athos used the sword as an extension of his arm, of himself and d'Artagnan sometimes found himself hard pressed to discern where one ended and the other began. Athos brandished a sword as easily as he breathed. Darting between his enemies, Athos moves carefully, calculated steps taking him across the ground, form perfect as he wasted no steps, no energy, no movements. They catch each other's eye and Athos nods. D'Artagnan nods back._

_The shift in Athos' expression scares him; his first indication anything is wrong is when the world seems to slow and Athos blinks and pales, bringing up his musket and pointing it at d'Artagnan. The young Musketeer has barely time to ask himself what his brother was thinking before the shot went off and the ball whizzed past his ear, the strangled cry of the man behind him making d'Artagnan turn so sharply he almost slips. But the corpse is dead before it hits the earth and d'Artagnan takes a moment to berate himself before facing his mentor again._

_What he sees stops his heart._

_There is a shadow behind Athos. A blade at his neck._

_Sliding._

_Sliding._

_Cutting._

_In that instant, in the distraction of protecting d'Artagnan-_

_Athos knows. Knows what's happening. It seems so slow. The way his eyes meet d'Artagnan's and there's something fond, something apologetic, something-something-something…._

_Blood. So much blood._

_D'Artagnan is lost in it._

_Lost as his mentor, his older brother, falls to his knees and it seems to shake the earth, rattle d'Artagnan's foundations. His world tilts as Athos does, tipping sideways and falling to the dirt. _

_Unmoving._

_Dead._

_All d'Artagnan remembers after that is the scream that rips from his throat; a strangled imitation of Athos' name, more animal than man, choked by his heart being wrenched from his chest._

_It's a haze. Blood. Battle. Tears._

_He remembers Aramis freezing mid-step. Head whipping up and face changing at d'Artagnan' broken cry._

_He remembers Porthos' roar, rage and pain and fear, louder than the thunder up above their heads._

_He remembers staggering as he burst into a run. Sword tearing through flesh, spraying him with blood and gore._

_He remembers being there. Sat in the mud and the crimson. Athos' head in his lap, eyes blank and unseeing into the stormy grey clouds above as the rain pelted them with all its might. Porthos on his hands and knees, bellowing at the earth, screaming at heaven. Aramis frozen in place, stood over them, eyes haunted and dark and dead._

_He remembers tears._

They buried him today. Another grave in a field of Musketeers. D'Artagnan wants to believe it's not real, like before, another fiction they made up in one of their crazy elaborate schemes.

It's not.

It never will be.

His fingers are digging into his arm. Vivid crimson lines. The pain doesn't help. It's nothing in comparison to the agony in his heart.

It never will be.

He can't be alone anymore.

He opens the door. They look at him, surprised, worn, exhausted. Porthos moves first, grabbing Aramis' arm and herding them into the room, engulfing them all in a hug. They sink to the floor in their embrace.

They cling to each other. No space between them. No space to breathe. But d'Artagnan breathes better than he has since Athos' death.

They stay like that. On that hard wooden floor, curled up together, one mess of limbs and broken hearts. Whispering gently to one another.

About nothing.

About everything.

Emotion grows and dies. But they never move. Never think about leaving. They stay. Together.

They cherish their tears and remember the brother they lost.


End file.
